


What good's religion

by Keiya



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: ....it's not depressing as it sounds, Asexual Character, Bastardization of catholicism, I promise, Like, M/M, Minor Character Death, Suicide mention, i'm relatively sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7036096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keiya/pseuds/Keiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is everything a metaphor for you?"<br/>"That, or a reference to comics. Or material for jokes."<br/>“Really bad jokes, you mean.”<br/>“Fuck you, ironic reconsideration of events is the best coping mechanism, and sarcasm is the best defensive mechanism.”<br/>“Was that an Iron Man reference?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my beta [starsniper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starsniper/pseuds/starsniper)!   
> (And for helping me to edit notes too)

Raphael wakes at sunset.

  
Day is dying, and the night is being born. It's a poetic, hurtful, and sacred time, and Raphael does not relate to it.

  
There is a sizeable cup of blood for him at the table, and he silently thanks Lily for that. He wouldn't admit that aloud, but she'll know.

  
Swallow after swallow, Raphael drinks the blood, savoring its thick rusty taste.

  
It's an unholy Communion, what he does, a reverse Communion. An immortal drinking mortal blood, when it should be the other way around.

  
One shouldn't participate in Communion if he commits a mortal sin, if it's a grave case, - but what should Raphael do if he is the embodiment of mortal sin and a literal grave case?

  
There is no answer and the blood isn't wine.

  
Simon waits for him in the hallway, not exactly nervous, but still fidgeting, still unsure. Raphael thinks it takes a long time for Simon to be sure of anything. The question is, would they have that time?

  
"You're fed?" Raphael asks, leading Simon to the training room.

  
"You make sound like I'm not actually not doing it myself, but just letting myself be the recipient of the whole process, which is, unfortunately, not the case," Simon says without pausing. Now that he doesn't need to breathe his rants would be endless, Raphael's sure.

  
He doesn't look forward to it.

  
"That doesn't answer the question."

  
"Oh." Simon tries to hold the door to the training room for him, but meets Raphael's glare and steps back. "Yeah, I did. I mean, I am. Fed. I fed myself. Except Lily brought it to me. Blood. Obviously."

  
He shuts up finally. Raphael uses silence to roll his eyes and tries not to pray for mercy in a sarcastic manner.

  
He succeeds, of course.

 

Simon, as expected, is terrible in training. Not because he's an idiot, even though the jury is still out on that, but because he is so far in denial, he is like, in Australia. Hugging quokkas. Simon doesn't seem to remember that he isn't human, and when he is reminded about that fact he is not excited and happy, but unsure and sulky.

  
Which, if Raphael thinks about it, may be an adequate response to being dead and then suddenly undead, immortal and bloodsucking. Maybe.

  
When Simon falls on the floor because he apparently forgets about the fact that he has two legs, Raphael sighs.

  
"Get up."

  
"I don't know," Simon says, staring at the ceiling, "I quite like the view from here. And I need a breather."

  
"You don't even need to breathe."

  
"I know, right? That's so weird. I can't even imagine how that works." Simon waves his hand in the air.

  
"Get up, you lazy ass."

  
"Could you maybe give me a hand? I'm so comfortable on the cold, hard floor. It reminds me of being dead, best sleep of my life, I tell you." Simon holds out his hand again, expectantly this time.

  
"Oh for God's sake." Raphael takes his hand and gets him up. Simons skin is a bit dry and cool under his fingers.

  
The touch feel strangely familiar, like they’ve shared touches for half of a decade already. Raphael feels like he knows what it's like to be hugged by Simon, not just how it feels to carry him in his arms, like he knows who and what Simon is besides a victim of Camille and a pain in the ass.

  
Weird.

  
"Change of scenery, fledgeling. We're going out."

 

When Simon suddenly stops beside the car, Raphael doesn't even rolls his eyes. It's an expensive car, yes, but it’s also not particularly unique. It certainly doesn't deserve this level of astonishment.

  
"Get in," Raphael orders.

"Loser, we’re going shopping." Simon says automatically, in his best Regina voice.

"I'm glad you're accepting your loserness gracefully, now get. In."

"Years of practice, man." Simon finally gets inside and starts looking around the car with a dropped jaw.

Seriously?

Raphael enjoys driving. It's a balance between control and hope, between following signs and trusting his own gut.

Kind of like belief.

"So where are we going? And I'm not just asking because I want to send a text to Clary so she knows where to look for my dead, uh, double-dead body. I really want to know." Simon tugs at his seat-belt, either wanting to feel safe, or fighting the urge to break free. Both are possible.

"To suburbia. We need more room. You need to learn to run, with as little falling as you can manage, preferably."

"Which we both know will still be a lot," Simon replies and grins at him. God, Raphael thinks, how he is always so cheerful? Except for those moments when he’s sulking, which happen often enough too. "Is it part of your clan territory?"

It stings, the way Simon divides himself from the clan.

"No."

"Someone else's?"

"It's a free territory. There’s just Old Eugen living on it." Raphael smiles to himself.

Simon watches this smile with a strange determination. Raphael feels it fade from his lips, like Simon’s stare frightened it away.

When Raphael turns right sharply, Simon swears and grips the car’s grab handle to stabilize himself. Raphael smirks.

That's better.

The last time they met, Old Eugen and Raphael spent four hours sitting beside the fire, sharing a flask of blood, tales that their mothers had told them them in their childhood, and their opinions about God. Raphael hadn’t returned to the hotel til right before dawn, his jacket smelling of smoke and head wonderfully empty after that much talking.

“You’ll like him,” he says to Simon.

 

They end up on an empty street. It's a nice neighborhood, and there are no lights on in the windows. Raphael looks at a dark house and knows immediately that it's red, a sharp contrast to the trees beside it. He probably would never see it in the daylight.

  
The moon is pale and Simon looks exquisite in its light. Raphael notices it in an abstract way, snaps the image in front of him to his memory - white face, bright eyes, even the torn up t-shirt collar. Simon shivers, like he's cold.

  
"We need to work on running." Raphael feels very tired suddenly.

  
"I read somewhere that running is just constantly falling and catching oneself. Kinda like life." Simon starts stretching. Raphael rolls his eyes.

"Is everything a metaphor for you?"

"That, or a reference to comics. Or material for jokes."

“Really bad jokes, you mean.”

“Fuck you, ironic reconsideration of events is the best coping mechanism, and sarcasm is the best defensive mechanism.”

“Was that an Iron Man reference?”

Simon blinks and then laughs. Raphael bites down his own smile.

"No Flash quotes today either."

"Ouch!" Simon pouts.

"Okay. You will run around this village. Your first task is sprinting. Concentrate on the speed first. Then, on the next try you will be focusing on endurance. Like a marathon."

"Man, do I suck at those..."

"You don't. Don't lie to yourself."

Simon sighs and nods. He stretches and puts himself in starting position. Raphael nods at him and watches how Simon easily disappears in the thin air, fast and careless.  
He probably should feel something.

Raphael silently questions himself, what he's supposed to feel. Emotions all look distant and unfamiliar in that moment. I'm fine, he thinks. There are stairs in the dark sky. Constant and far away.

Simon shows up again, slower now, but still remotely fast. His feet bounce off the asphalt rhythmically. His breath is a bit desperate, but steady.

"Good."

"Yeah?" Simon smiles widely, a little amazed with the run, with the speed, with himself. Raphael smirks.

"Yeah. Now slow and even. Three circles around village."

"I'll die. Again."

"As if."

Simon scowls. Raphael shrugs.

"Whenever you’re ready. Right now for example."

Simon takes off again.

 

It's when Simon runs past him for the second time - that's when Raphael notices the movement. It sets off warning signs - it's too fast or too concentrated, or too frantic, or all at once, Raphael doesn't know, but he runs immediately, he calls Simon by name, ordering him to get behind Raphael, right now, fuck. Fuck.

The aggressor - a vampire, it's a vampire, Raphael reflects - attacks Simon, ruthlessly, doubtlessly, searing off the air with its claws. Simon backs off, falls down, probably screams, but Raphael doesn't hear it. He is already in front of him, placing himself between Simon and the danger. He hisses.

  
The fight between two vampires is always a contradiction, one moment it's too fast for human eyes and in the next moment both opponents are frozen, watching each other, waiting for the next flurry of moves.

  
Raphael is dangerous, he knows that. His rival knows that too, but doesn't try to escape. He fights like a man who has lost himself, whose only purpose is murder and blood blood blood. His face is covered in dirt, mutilated with anger and agony. He keeps coming at Raphael, even tries to bypass him and go for Simon.

  
Raphael has no choice but to kill him.

  
Simon screams behind his back, words incoherent, but his fear and desperation is clear. Simon's too soft, he doesn't like killing, doesn't like fighting.

  
Raphael doesn't, either.

  
It changes nothing.

Death is a dirty thing on his fingers, it leaves sour taste in his mouth.

It changes nothing.

The man - the body - lays there after Raphael is done with it. Soulless piece of flesh. It's not pretty in any sense of the word, death is nothing like how it's shown in films. It's a twisted, bloody thing, in ripped clothes, and Raphael sits beside it. He turns its head with his hand.

It's completely covered in red and black, in blood and mud.

Now the face of dead man is relaxed. It's peaceful, like he’s somehow reached his goal. He probably did.

Raphael cries anyway.

His tears are blood, as though there is not enough blood in this moment, as though Raphael's life isn't made out of red and black, out of blood and mud. Old Eugen lays beside him, and Simon sits beside him, a wordless, fidgeting presence at his left. Raphael hears how Simon struggles to find the words to comfort him.

Crying is painful, reciting God's name and all the saint's names is painful, every Latin word is salt and iron on his tongue. Raphael prays anyway.

He taught himself to say God's name through the pain and damnation of his existence, and what time is more suitable for calling Him.

The words flow and bleed and finally run out. Raphael is exhausted.

Simon looks at him. Raphael suddenly finds himself drawn in that look, in that intense attention. Simon rubs his hands, twitches fingers, his mouth is a thin line.  
His eyes don't blame Raphael.

"Eugen was turned as an old man," Raphael says. He coughs, his throat dry, before continuing. "It was an accident. He's never wanted it. His whole family died that night."

"You were there?" Simon asks quietly. He looks at the ground now, rough asphalt, the edge of the road, raw earth.

"No. He told me. He's never wanted to be in a clan. Said it felt like trying to replace his family."

"He's with them now, probably."

"Hope so. God, I hope so."

The sky is getting lighter at south, and Raphael silently curses.

"We should get going."

"Yeah," Simon gets up and offers his hand. Raphael takes it.

The touch is still too familiar.

"We should watch 'All dogs Go To Heaven' when we get to home," Simon says easily. Raphael clicks his car's keys.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have some clan business to do.”

“Hell to the no. You’re not going to do business after everything that happened tonight!!” Simon flails his arms in a wide gesture. “Over my cold, dead body. So, basically, my body right now. Just unmoving too. We can watch some other cartoon, even.”

  
“You can go to sleep and I can stop wasting my time on you and actually do something useful for once.”

  
It's petty and has just one purpose - to offend Simon and make him shut up.

  
Simon nods, like he gets it, like he accepts Raphael’s decision, and smiles sadly. He’s hungry again already, his fangs are sharp and glistening in the dark.

  
Okay, Raphael thinks. Okay.

  
Nothing is.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the ringpower and starsniper for betaing! You make me better.

Raphael washes his hands for the third time and stops himself. There aren't any traces of blood, there can't be.

 

He hid Old Eugen's body where the sun's burning light will find him earlier than any people will. But he knows he still should let the Shadowhunters know.

As long as no Mundane, and no other Downworlder is involved, just vampires, it's technically just their business. But Eugen wasn't part of the clan. Any clan. Eugen was somewhat of a refugee.

Alexander Lightwood doesn’t answer his phone for a long time. It's early morning for all the day birds, there is probably so much sunlight on the streets. Meteorologists promised a bright day.

Raphael feels cold and tired in the darkness of the hotel.

"-'llo?" Alec's voice isn't sleepy, it's alarmed, one hundred percent conscious. He was raised as a warrior.

Raphael was raised as a city boy, he became a warrior on his own, but he still respects hunters, when they are not being obnoxious little shits; which is rare.

"I killed a vampire tonight." Raphael's throat is tight and dry.

"Who was it?"

"Old Eugen. He, evidently, lost his mind and attacked first." Raphael closes his eyes and drums his fingers on the edge of his table.

"Were you alone?"

"I was with the fledgling. Simon Lewis. He will tell you everything you ask him."

"Okay. I believe you. We will talk with Simon," Alec pauses, "Magnus?"

Of course they're together.

"Yes, dear?"

"Talk to Raphael, I assume he needs it."

 

Magnus' voice is soft and a little bit scratched around the edges. He greets Raphael with the kind of patience he reserves for friends and family only.

"I'm okay," Raphael states easily.

"So, you're worse than I thought, then," Magnus says. He's too old and too smart for anybody’s good. He's the only one who still makes Raphael feel young, unsure, and stupid.

"No."

"Yes. You wouldn't lie to me otherwise, would you? Why bother, if there is nothing to defend."

"You clearly know what I feel better than I do," Raphael says. Magnus ignores his sarcasm with a skill gained by the decades of practice.

"Shall I arrange the meeting with Father Andrew? Is next midnight okay with you?" Raphael can imagine him, holding Alec's phone between his shoulder and ear, typing furiously on his own device, fingers with black nails flying over the screen.

"I'm fine," Raphael says, he has somewhat of a blurry definition of "fine", that's all.

"And it's done, he will be waiting!" Magnus says cheerfully.

"Fuck you."

"That's not how you say thank you, Mr. Santiago, I hope you're aware."

"No, I meant it. Fuck you."

"Well, I could try to talk to you myself, Raph, but I'm pretty sure..."

"Not a fucking chance." Raphael can't even imagine that. Just. No.

"Yeah, that precisely." Raphael guesses that Magnus is smiling at the other end of the phone.

Funny how well they know each other.

"Go to sleep, Raphael," Magnus says. There is worry in his voice, Raphael is always a bit surprised at how much Magnus cares. That he cares at all.

"Yeah."

When you're immortal, time is strange. It speeds and stretches in all the wrong ways, it slips through fingers and stalls, stops, dies down, like it doesn't really exist. Relationships are hard because of that, friendships are hard. Magnus is much older, and Raphael has no idea how he deals, how he loses again and again.

 

Raphael sticks to befriending only other immortals - and watching his family from afar, watching his brothers becoming old men, his nieces and nephews turning into adult people he doesn't know. Magnus, meanwhile, chooses attachments and losses.

Father Andrew comes from a family that Magnus has stayed friends with, generation after generation, much longer than he’s been friends with Raphael, longer than Raphael has been a vampire, longer than Raphael’s vampire and human life combined.

Raphael has no idea how Magnus keeps that strange, improbable relationship, why he puts himself through death after death and doesn't run away.

But here Raphael is, after almost twenty years of infrequent meetings with Father Andrew. He watches Father grow old in steps, each time looking more worn out, face more wrinkled, hair grayer - until it became white and stayed that way.

Raphael looks at the man across him and fears the day he will inevitably lose him.

It's a quiet day-and-night coffeeshop, almost empty at midnight, with warm lights and detached tired staff. Father Andrew drinks his green tea and looks at Raphael, smiling. His teeth are a bit yellow-ish, no fangs. One hundred percent human.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Oh, how I have sinned Father," Raphael says. He stares at his cup of black coffee and muffin - he can't eat it, but he didn't like the idea of sitting here and not ordering anything. It's unfair to the staff, and he's not short on money.

 

He still puts sugar in the cup, as he did before, when he was human.

"How can I ask you to forgive me? How can I ask Him?" Raphael closes his eyes for a moment. His eyelids weigh a ton. "I'm a murderer, Father Andrew. I killed someone yesterday. I was conscious and present, I was all there, and I took someone's life."

He speaks as quietly as he can. Magnus gave him some kind of amulet, it's supposed to turn everything they talk about into innocent chatter for random stranger.

But the words are still heavy.

Raphael looks through the window, into the darkness of the night. He belongs there, if he belongs anywhere at all.

Father Andrew watches him with his intense blue eyes. He doesn't look shocked, scared, disappointed. There is something alarmingly like sympathy there, and Raphael swallows and turns back to the window. A car slashes darkness with its headlights and then goes by, and the blackness is thick again.

"They took from Old Eugen his humanity, and his family, and his reasons to live, and his ability to die - he was religious, Father, he couldn't commit suicide. He had stood this twisted, pinched version of existing for fifteen decades, and I took from him the last. I took his life, Father."

He doesn't wait for forgiveness. He can't be given one, he won't tolerate a fake one.

No rest for the wicked.

No forgiveness for the damned.

 

"Why am I even trying?" Raphael asks. Something is bitter on his tongue, something is painful in his throat, like he's choking on it.

Guilt, maybe.

Desperation, maybe.

Another car flashes its headlights outside the coffeeshop, and the darkness swallows the brief light, consuming and destroying it.

The barista catches Raphael's eyes from across the shop and gestures at the menu, inviting him to order something else. Raphael smiles weakly and shakes his head. He uses his spoon to tear apart the muffin that he can't eat.

“If we live, we live for the Lord, Raphael. And when we die, we die for Lord. We belong to Him in life and in death, and we don't know His ways.” Father Andrew’s voice is deep, soft and clear. “You can feel grief for your friend dying, but you need to overcome it in your belief in God.”

 

Father Andrew lays his hands on the table, with his old rosary in them. Raphael's eyes stick to weave of the blue veins on the worn skin of his wrists. Father Andrew runs his fingers over beads, as in counting them. The cross is made out of wood, it's scratched and polished with touches. 

“You always know your guilts, Raphael. If one is truly sorry, God is willing to forgive. There is Salvation for anyone.” 

“God is willing to forgive me, Father?” Raphael chuckles darkly. “But am I?” 

“That’s a pride talking in you, son of mine. That's a hubris.” Father Andrew shakes his head slowly, discouragingly. 

“I have to put myself in the hands of God, I know,” Raphael says. “I know it all. I was supposed to become a priest, you know. I was sixteen and I wanted to serve the Lord.”

Raphael reaches out and touches the cross. His fingertips are burning from it, it's a familiar sensation. 

Maybe one day Raphael will be able to wear his cross. He has time, he’s immortal after all.

Maybe one day he will be able to go on the holy ground, to visit a church, to look Jesus on the  image in the ever living eyes, to confess for real.

 

It's a daydream.

 

They talk some time after that, touching subjects of his clan, of Shadowhunters, of Simon. It distracts Raphael, soothes the pain in him to a quiet aching. Father Andrew uses the cryptic language full of Bible references, but his hands are warm and his eyes are kind.

 

Raphael can't hope for more.

 

He takes off to the Dumort and on the way home thinks not about overbearing emotions but about Old Eugen and the times they fought depression and loneliness together.

 

Raphael tries to imagine what set Eugen off, what made him lose it. He can’t think of anything.

 

Simon is sitting on the second floor windowsill when Raphael gets home. His legs are outside, feet are bare, his head leans on the wall to his left, neck exposed to the moonlight.  

 

He’s so casually beautiful, making everything around him into the background and frame, becoming the center of any picture. It's a study in blue.

 

“Hey!” Raphael shouts. It's childish, but pleasant. Simon jerks, loses his balance, and falls down into the room, screeching. There is some noise - he probably tried to grab on something and it fell down with him - and then Simon's head pokes out of the window.

 

“I honestly feel so attacked right now,” Simon says.

 

Raphael quirks his eyebrow.

 

“You're an asshole,” Simon claims and jumps out of the window. His landing is not perfect in any way and Raphael makes a note to himself to make Simon work on it. Simon smiles at him,a wide careless smile of someone who was pretty much a child just yesterday.

 

Death didn't erase that in him.

 

(But the life will.)

Simon follows him like a duckling, watching his face, attentive to the point of aggression.

 

“What?” Raphael says at least.

 

“I have, like, a large number of questions right now, actually, from the origins of last night situation to my last study in the vampireness, but the real question is - are you okay?”

 

“Define okay. Then redefine it. Then forget what the word even means.”

 

“I know that feel, bro.” Simon claps on Raphel’s shoulder easily.

 

Raphael sends Simon to train. Lily waits for him in the living - deading, according to Simon - room.  She's wearing an old china dress, made of fine bright blue silk, with it's long and wide sleeves that fly when she raises her hands. She doesn't wear her national clothes much these days, sticking to androgynous style and short haircuts, but Raphael remembers the way she fights in this or similar dress.

 

It's deadly and gorgeous.

 

Much like her in general.

 

Lily breathes out bright white smoke, it curls in the grim light.

“So,” she says and taps her cigarette on the edge of an ashtray.  

 

“Yes?”

 

“What do you think? Was it Camille?” Lily takes her cigarette to her lips. She moves like a bird, a predatory one, with easiness and sharpness of someone really dangerous and not at all shy about it.

 

Raphael blinks at her. He knows that his face is frozen, expressionless.

 

“Oh, that really fucked you up,” Lily says. “It was an attack, clearly. Are you ready to think about it or should I take the lead?”

 

Raphael slowly shakes his head. The wheels in his head are twirling on the full speed.

 

Yeah. Yeah, it makes sense, nothing else does actually, and Raphael was blinded by his overwhelming emotions and he didn't make sure his clan was safe.

 

“I allow you exactly two minutes of freaking out and feeling guilty.” Lily puts what's left of her cigarette in the ashtray and takes a new one out of the pack.

 

“I don't know why you bother with those. They don't do anything to you.” The words are foreign, even though Raphael said them multiple times already.

 

“I just love the smoke.” Lily lets it out, and it moves in the air lazily, getting thinner and thinner, disappearing.

 

Old Eugen was stable. Old Eugen was without a clan, vulnerable. Old Eugen was a friend of his. Old Eugen wasn't that dangerous.

 

“It was a random attack,” Raphael says.

 

“Good,” Lily smiles at him.

 

“Whoever broke and used him, wasn't concerned about someone else getting hurt.”

 “Are we sure that you were the target?” Lily has made her own conclusions, obviously. She just wants him to consider everything.

 “Mostly sure, Lily. He was my friend and nobody else visited him frequently.”

 Lily nods.

 “Somebody played us,” Raphael says. “Eugen couldn't… he wasn't a great threat to me. The goal was probably to make me overly emotional and unstable.”

 “Sounds like Camille.”

 “It does. She has the reasons, too.”

 Lily turns to the window. The sky is getting less and less dark already. It's deep blue with the bright blue stripe looking out between buildings. Lily closes the blinds with practiced ease.

 “We’ll talk more tomorrow. We have some time.”

 “Thanks.”

 Raphael makes himself get out of the living room. Halfway to his bedroom he realises that he's exhausted. He’s drained, empty and sore inside. He’s eaten out and beaten. He leans on the wall and despises himself a little for being so weak.

 It's just feelings.

 

He shouldn't let them ruin him.

 

Raphael actually wants to sit on the floor, there is noise in his head. Is he hungry too? He can't understand.

 

Shit, he thinks, shit, I should get to my room.

 

“Hey,” someone’s voice says, clear and worried, through the muffled noise in Raphael's head,  and then there is a face in his line of the vision, and it's Simon, and he shouldn't see Raphael weak.  Raphael grits his teeth.

 

“You okay? Wait, you're obviously not okay, what the fuck am I saying.”

 

Simon lays his hand on Raphael’s shoulder, and it feels like his hand is warm, it can't be, he’s a vampire, immortal and cold. Like all of them.

 

“Can I? This is stupid, but,” Simon tugs on his shoulder and hugs Raphael.

 

Raphael’s forehead is on Simon's shoulder, and he can't see a thing, just darkness, deep safe darkness and it calms Raphael down.

 

Simon's embrace is loose, like he doesn't want to trap Raphael.

 

“Yeah, okay, I'm officially lucky, am I? You didn't kill me yet, should I run away right now to have a better odds?”

 

Simon's voice is clear but quiet, and he releases Raphael from the hug, letting him lean back on the wall. Simon runs his fingers through his hair, unsure. Raphael notices all this in a different way, his brain numb. His fingers are cold.

 

“All right. It's probably shock. It doesn't look like a panic attack to me, even though I'm not an expert, unfortunately. Or fortunately, cause I wouldn't wish that on anybody.” He stops, sighs and takes Raphael's hand. It's such an awkward, teenage gesture, that Raphael would mock it if he had the energy.

 

Simon leads him to his room. The memory of the way here is blurry, but later Raphael remembers Simons fingertips on his forehead before he fell asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only these people know how bad I actually am - thank you for not running for the hills, [starsniper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starsniper/pseuds/starsniper) and [ringpower](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ringpower/pseuds/ringpower)!

Chapter 3

Raphael wakes up slowly, his mind grabbing onto last night's events. Everything feels very far away from him - emotions, decisions, conclusions, nothing is connected with him. His mind is a quiet unmoving place for once, thankfully. Raphael lays in his bed and sees no reason to get up, even though he logically knows he should. 

His watch shows it's only 5 PM, and Raphael decides to let himself have a slow evening. He lays in bed for an additional twenty minutes, his eyes shut, dozing off a bit but not sleeping. He’s warm, and that's not a common feeling for him. Vampires don't exactly freeze on a daily basis, but there always is a certain chill living right outside their pale skin, touching inside of their wrists, making them tense. 

But Raphael is warm, and he’s calm and he allows it for himself, maybe he has no other option. 

Eventually, he gets up and goes to bathroom and dresses himself up. He still has no intentions to leave his room. 

Jesus on the cross on his wall doesn't look at him, He looks at the floor, as always, His face is torn in the eternal labor of pain. Raphael goes to Him and carefully lays his hand on the wall beside Him. The cross is not big but lovingly detailed, with the matted locks of hair and the evident stripes of blood on his hands. 

Jesus Christ, Raphael thinks, had only one actual privilege on all of us. He knew what He was suffering for, knew that His pain for the greater good. 

Raphael wishes it was the same for him, Raphael craves knowing there is a reason behind his dark and dirty path. 

He kneels and prays- familiar pain, familiar words, the usual self-torture, usual self-sacrifice. He prays and prays and thinks about all the people, generation after generation, saying all the same words, not always knowing their meaning, but believing nonetheless. 

He can feel this belief in the ancient Latin formulas. He hurts from it. 

Raphael gets to the bathroom after that and washes his hands and face with a cold, cold water. It breaks into drops on his skin. He feels calm and pure, the world is clear around him. 

Raphael finds Simon in his room. It doesn't look lived in, but it's not empty. There’s a definite mess - sheets of paper on the table, guitar beside the bed, guitar case in the corner. 

“Is it too delusional to imagine you’re just lost and want some directions in this maze of the hotel?” Simon greets him from where he sits on the floor, his legs crossed, a pen is spinning in the fingers, a notebook beside him.

Raphael rolls his eyes. 

“Thought so!” Simon drops his pen and smiles at him, as he is both relieved and disappointed to have a legitimate distraction. “What's up?”

“Clan business.” Raphael sits down in the chair and crosses his legs.

“You're dramatic, are you aware?” Simon huffs. His hair is messy, and there’s ink on his nose. “It suits you, to be fair, but you're still a drama queen.”

“That title one hundred percents belongs to Magnus and therefore is not up for grabs.” 

“Okay, you’re a drama princess. Or a drama duke.” Simon smirks. “Drama duke and funny dude - that would be me, I guess - against the world.” 

“Camille.” 

The name falls heavily, like a rock, like a fate, between them. 

“Oh.” Simon drums his fingers on his knee, and blinks slowly. “Eugen?”

“Yeah.”

It's funny how Simon remembers his name, even though he’d never knew the man. Maybe it has something to do with the fight and danger. Maybe, it’s because of something else. 

“Okay,” Simon nods a little - accepting, settling into new reality. “What would she want more, power or revenge?” 

Raphael considers it. She’s hungry, starving for both. Camille is manipulative and unforgiving, it's probably hard to forgive someone who didn't play her games. Her ruthlessness is limited only by her pride. 

Her nails are always polished, her thoughts are always in dirt, and Raphael remembers a time when he was impressed with it. 

“Power,” he says. “Being in charge would be payback in itself.”

“So she wants to take clan back,” Simon nods, a few small, frantic moves of his head. “Fuck. We should contact the Shadowhunters.” 

“No.”

Simon flails, but continues, as if uninterrupted. 

“We have, um, difficulties, yes. But. Clary and I? And Jace would do anything to make Clary happy, 'cause it makes him happy. He’s casually egotistic like that. And Alec, well, is a decent guy. Like, he’s an asshole, but a decent one. Whoa, it sounds bad with his newly explored sexuality, doesn't it? Also, you’re Magnus’ bestie, so.” 

Raphael rolls his eyes. 

“Do not use this word according to me. Ever. Clear?” 

Simon huffs.

“It might be slightly surprising to you, Simon, but Downworlders in general don't like to invite Hunters into their business. We're solving the problem ourselves.” 

Simon's lips twitch. 

“I'm not sure if it’s more childish or criminal like behavior, but yeah. Point absolutely taken.” 

Criminal, Raphael thinks, definitely criminal. There are laws in Downworlders society, there are rules, there are those who break them and then there is suitable punishment.

“We don't include Shadowhunters.” 

“Can we maybe include them as friends, not as an organization?” Simon raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Just, you know, a thing to consider.”

“I’ll think about it.” 

“You won't. Okay. And what we’re gonna do with me?” 

“With you?” 

“Yeah. Camille would want to use me. She’s my Sire, right?”

Raphael blinks. Fuck, he didn't think about that. How could he not think about that? 

“We don't know she would.” His voice is suddenly rough, scratched, unsure. Broken, but working.

“Oh, she would. She would want to twist my loyalty, to fuck with my head, to play me. Dude, I watched like ten seasons of Criminal minds, I know how evil psychos work!” Simon manages to actually look proud of himself. Raphael manages to breath slowly and evenly. 

The fear in his gut is unexpected, cold feeling, sharp and sinking. Shit. 

It doesn't make sense, that Raphael is so scared on Simon's behalf. It’s pointless, that urge to swear and break something down to release his distress. 

Yeah, okay, Raphael thinks. Okay.

He'll figure it out. 

“We can defend you. We can hide you.”

“Or,” Simon gets up and starts pacing, paper sheets swirling around his feet, send off by his fierce steps, “or we can use me. We can make her believe I’m endorsed, swept away, whatever.”

“You can’t lie, Lewis. You have absolutely zero skill in it.” 

“Oh, but I won’t be.” Simon stops and looks at him, eyes wide, with a deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face. “I won’t be lying, Raph, do you realise it? She’s my Sire. I feel the constant need to obey her orders, to make sure she’s safe. Luke says it’s normal.” He snorts. “Fuckety fuck, the definition of normal is so unreal this days. Like, you wouldn’t believe me. Well, you probably would.”

“That makes it inconvenient to use you. You can actually be baffled.” Raphael almost hisses at the thought. 

“She’s a crazy bitch, Raph. I’m scared and I need to deal with it, I’m so done with being a liability. I’m not fine with that being my eternal part in everything, okay? I’m - loyal, I know I am, and I’m not...”

Raphael stares. He knows he does, but he can’t exactly stop. Simon looks perplexed, angry at himself.

“How are you so good with the thinking process, but so horrible with decisions?” Raphael makes his voice quiet and calm, with a note of sarcasm in it. 

“I’m a study in a fucking contradictions like that,” Simon snorts. “Also, I’m pretty much always biased.” 

He sits on his bed, his fingers immediately fiddling with the wrinkle on fabric. 

“I need to know I can hold myself against her, Raph. I want to trust myself.”

I want to trust you too, Raphael thinks. I don’t know why, but, God, I want to.

He wants to know he can put his life into Simon’s hands, and be sure. He wants to be able to fall without a fail, believing there will be hands to catch him. Trust is blind, blinder than Justice. It’s a paradoxical need, to trust not for perks of it but for the feeling itself.

“What if you will surrender?” Raphael asks. He has to.

Simon’s face is momentarily slitted with ugly, sharp smirk. 

“We will make some failproof plan.” 

“We will need Lily for that.”

Simon nods. 

“Yeah. Hey, Raph, do you know, is there any way to add caffeine to blood? ‘Cause I would really like to be nicely caffeinated for all of this shit. Coffee. I miss coffee. I mostly need to be caffeinated for life in general, honestly, but for all of this…”

“Ask Magnus. I’m going to find Lily.” 

Raphael shakes his head, mostly to himself. Simon switches from mood to mood so seemingly easily. Or he is good in pretending, playing the part. Maybe both. He’s suddenly sure it’s both.

Lily is pleased with both of them, her eyes are sharp behind the curtain of smoke. She nods and suggests and dismisses most of Simon’s ideas - not all of them, unexpectedly, - she even argues with Raphael on some of them, her voice always quiet, always steel. They have a rough draft of plan by the end of the session, and Raphael smiles, and then takes Simon to training room. Simon groans all the way there, hisses, when Raphael calls him a toddler, even shows his fangs playfully. Raphael bites down his smirk. 

They do well at training too. Simon’s tired, and that somehow helps him to settle, to flail less and move consciously more. They spar, and Simon even gives Raphael a bit of trouble. Not much, but Raphael takes it. He catches Simon in the clinch, and feels Simon’s body shivering, a weak, unsure shudder under his hands. Raphael lets him go, gets up. Simon sits at the floor, his posture is awkward, face is hard to read.

“Well, the amount of scary, hot, and I mean scaringly hot and so-scary-it’s-hot people around me is growing exponentially. I’m not exactly sure what I feel about that. Oh, and I use ‘people’ as an umbrella term here, for everyone who has human-like shape and human-like mind.”

“You do realise the absolute lack of any sense in your little speech, right?” 

“Yeah,” Simon says, not minding it at all, judging by his tone. “Anyway, what do you do about that? I’m in serious need of some tips here, dude.”

Raphael shrugs. He suddenly feels exposed in his t-shirt, misses his jackets, heavy, solid defence against the world. 

“Never had this problem.”

“Oh.” Simon looks up at him. He looks shocked. “You mean…” He stutters and gestures around helplessly, and somehow Raphael gets what he means.

“No. I just… Don’t really find someone hot. Never wanted sex and such. I’ve always thought it was because God wanted me for Himself.” 

“But you’re so… fuck.” Simon shuts up. 

The silence lingers. It’s deep, uncomfortable, it feels important, but not entirely horrible. Small favors, the good cause to thank God, especially when you have no other reasons. 

Simon takes his hand to his mouth and picks on his fingernails, distracted, and Raphael tries to consider, if Simon really always does something with his hands, or is Raphael fixated on it and notices it every time?

He offers Simon his hand, helping him get up, and at this point it’s a tradition already. Their skin match in temperature, Raphael’s fingers look darker on Simon’s pale wrist. 

“You did not so bad today,” says Raphael. “I’m looking forward to the inevitable fuck up.”

 

Simon laughs a little, nods. 

“We have a plan for that.”

“We do.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On that update please have:   
> \- a little bit of poetry, cuz you seem to like it  
> \- a little bit of fluff, cuz I can  
> \- a quote from Hamilton   
> \- a quote from Fight club (catch 'em)  
> \- oh, look, angst, cuz I'm an asshole.
> 
>  
> 
> My betas are blessing.

The music in the club is thick, magnetic. It pulsates in Raphael’s ears, dances on the tips of his fingers. Beings of all different species and genders are losing themselves in the movements, in the touches of their dance partner, in drinking. Their smiles are relaxed, hypnotised, mesmerised. Glitter is everywhere. 

The simple act of forgetting oneself is accelerated to the idea and conception here. Raphael thinks that the most interesting part is sobering; finding oneself again. If you can wake up in another place, if you can wake up in another time, can you wake up as another person? 

By the time they find Magnus at the bar, drink in his hand, Simon has glitter in his hair, a trace of lipstick on his cheek from where a sylph dressed as a mermaid smooched him, and a bewildered and excited look on his face. Raphael decides right then and there that Simon is never to come here alone. He would probably get himself turned into a rat or something. 

“Raphael, dearest! Bloody Mary or Bloody George?” Magnus smiles at him, waves at the barmen, a middle-aged fawn with tattooed arms and small sharp horns. “Oh, and you, Steven. You can have some juice.”

“Simon, and I can’t, actually, have some juice. Seeing as I’m, you know, on a diet.” Simon flails, managing to seem both awkward and sarcastic. “And by diet I mean blood. Preferably A+, do you have it?”

“I’m absolutely taking offence at your question, Samuel.” Magnus is smirking. “As well as your daring decision to wear this particular piece of clothing to my club. Raphael, are you positive you need him here for whatever reason?” 

“He’s involved, Magnus.” Raphael sighs.

“And that’s the only reason, Mr. Santiago? Are you positive on it?” Manus says in a teasing tone.

“Hey, what’s wrong with my t-shirt?”

Magnus doesn’t answer, raising his eyebrows instead. 

“Can we go back to the question at hand, please?” Raphael maybe exaggerates his tiredness from the exchange a little. But not entirely.

“As soon as we all agree that Sean over here only looks decent when he’s wearing your clothes!” Magnus is aggressively cheerful. It’s almost terrifying.

Raphael isn’t sure he’s able to roll his eyes hard enough, but he’s willing to try. That’s a useful exercise in his life.

“I’m astonished by your skill in checking anyone else out while you’re absolutely smitten with Alexander,” Simon quips. 

“What I’m astonished with is the fact that you both are sticking to idle banter while Camille is out there,” Raphael hears his voice dropping lower, more serious. “She’s planning something.”

Simon bites his lip, looks down, guilt written all over his face. Magnus just nods.  
“She always is.” He finishes his drink in one swallow and immediately gets from barmen the next one, fingers with golden nails clenching on the glass. 

“You can define her whereabouts, right?” Raphael is fairly sure in what answer would be.

“Obviously.” Magnus narrows his eyes. Eyeliner makes him look like a cat. A dangerous and gracious cat.

Raphael tells him about the plan.

“You’re at risk,” Magnus says to Simon. “Are you quite aware?”

“I’m actually much more aware than I’d prefer to be, thank you. I’d like to live in sweet oblivion, but here we are.” Simon shrugs. 

“And you’re truly willing to take it?” Magnus looks genuinely curious. 

“I’m not throwing away my shot,” Simon is obviously waiting for them to recognise the line. His fate is to drown in a disappointment.

“Okay, human mosquito-”

“Hey!” Raphael and Simon exclaim in sync. 

“-You should go dance. Both of you.” 

“Wait, what? Why?” Simon blinks, at loss. Raphael sighs internally. Of course, Magnus wouldn’t make anything easy. He never does. He’s too ancient for easy, probably. 

“Because, one, I don’t traditionally work pro bono, except for some very specific cases,” Magnus smiles wistfully. Raphael swallows the snarky remark about the common knowledge of that exact kind of specificity. “And two, you two dancing, or more like, attempting to dance, would be a sight that would amuse me to no end, so I’m willing to take it as a payment. Now shoo.” Magnus disentangles one of the charms from the dozen hanging on his chest and takes it’s chain.  
Raphael drags Simon to the dance floor praying to God for mercy and strength. Mercy for the next song to be slow one, and strength for Raphael to not kill or disable anyone, starting with Magnus, following up with Simon and finishing with everyone else. 

“You’re serious? I mean, he’s serious? I mean, he can’t be serious!” Simon frantically looks back at Magnus and then again at Raphael.

“He’s as serious as he gets. And trust me, you don’t want to know what happens if we don’t oblige.” 

“He won’t do the search?” 

“Oh no, he absolutely will. But he will still take his payment, but making it an even more amusing show for him.”

Simon shudders. 

Raphael looks back at Magnus. Magnus grins at him wickedly and makes a twirling gesture with his hand. Raphael tries to work out the part of his afterlife when he made such wrong life choices. Making friends with Magnus seemed a really good idea at the time. He was terribly misinformed, he now realizes. 

 

They don’t go deep into the sweaty frantic crowd that dances on the constant edge of getting off. Instead, they stick to the almost empty corner of the dance floor. Simon is unsure, awkward, he keeps biting his lip. Raphael doesn’t know if it because he’s uncomfortable, or because he thinks Raphael is uncomfortable. 

It’s not.

It’s easy, sharing a space with Simon. Simon doesn’t get in the way, doesn’t try to take more than he’s offered, he’s just there. It’s good feeling, and the music vibrates inside of Raphael, constant waves, both soothing and exciting.

“Holy shit, how this music is so good?” Simoon screams at him through the thick veil of sound.

Raphael doesn’t feel like screaming, so he steps closer and whispers in Simon’s ear.

“I’m pretty sure the DJ is a siren. No idea where Magnus found him and how he persuaded him to work here though.”

“It was probably a bribe or blackmail,” Simon says. He doesn’t step back, keeps moving to the rhythm, even relaxes a little. Raphael lays his hand on Simon’s forearm, and it’s a pleasant feeling, sweet and warm and calming. Simon smiles at him, a small but bright smile. Raphael wants to look away, but doesn’t.

He can almost hear Magnus laughing at him.

 

Simon leaves with the coordinates of where Camille should be and cold determination in his eyes. He still makes a stupid face when waves goodbye, still cracks a joke - cracks a few jokes, maybe. 

The night is chilly, with the wind trying to get under Raphael’s jacket, washing his face with cold air. He and Magnus are standing at the back door of club long after Simon disappears. Magnus caresses his drink, watches the tiny spouts twirling on the surface.

“She hasn’t always been like this,” says Magnus, and his voice is bitter, is poisoned with the old disappointment and seasoned with the utter acceptance of reality. 

Raphael looks at him, and he’s not sure he can believe it. Camille is Camille. 

“No, she always was manipulative bitch,” and there is a smile on Magnus’ face, fading, ghostlike. “She liked her games and was harsh with them. She danced around you and and mussed with your head, and it was chaotic and gorgeous. I couldn’t look away. The beauty of mischief…” He sighs. 

“What happened?” Raphael asks quietly.

“Nothing.” Magnus looks right at him, and his eyes are glowing, fierce yellow eyes. “There weren’t any tragic incidents, Raphael. She’s been losing herself drop after drop. She went from harsh and manipulative to downright sadistic. Her games, her schemes - they were getting scary, Rapha, and she lost any pity for anyone, even for herself. She drowned in her own cruelty and ardour. And I was there, and I couldn’t do anything.” 

Magnus’ mouth is a hard line. The wind touches his hair, stirs it.

“Sometimes I think that vampirism was invented to kill the human soul slowly, eat it away bite after bite.” Raphael says. “Our tears are always bloody, our hands are always cold. Crying hurts so we prevent it. We distance ourself, we play it safe. And playing it safe is a losing game. Endless, losing game.”

Magnus nods and shuts his eyes.

Raphael doesn’t tell him about the way being a vampire twists all beliefs, how it assures you - yes, the Lord does exist and you’re forever damned by Him, isn’t it great news? The Good Lord exists and you’re being punished for calling out for Him, for touching anything relevant.

God exists and He doesn’t want to have anything to do with you. 

Raphael doesn’t say it all. He chokes up on his own silence. 

“Has Camille ever believed in God?” There’s a lump in his throat, and a soreness in his lips, and a fledgeling walking towards the danger somewhere.

Magnus shrugs his stiff shoulders. 

“She had an old cross, but I’ve never seen her praying.” He downs his drink in one go. Magnus is an entirely empty glass kind of person, and then - the entirely full glass one. 

***

The ray of light falls, falls, falls from the lamp post, it breaks apart on the dark silhouette, lays on the woman’s shoulders, on her face, which looks white in this cold electric glow, even if it isn’t. Even if it can’t be. 

Her skin is olive, like Raphael’s is, her eyes are dark, like Raphael’s are, her teeth are sharp and her belief is shuttered and twisted. 

He shouldn’t feel sorry for her. 

There’s a stain of blood in the corner of her mouth, there’s a malice in her eyes. She lost herself so long ago. She’s a dangerous animal, Raphael thinks, she gave up on her soul, and he knows the sweet and poisonous temptation in these thoughts, the urge to judge and believe in his own justness.

“Camille.” 

She snaps her fingers and Simon appears from the shadows. His face is blank, an empty sheet. Raphael wouldn’t recognise him if he wasn’t expecting to see him. 

The light makes Simon pale, bleached. Everything that defines him is washed out. There is a red spot on his neck. 

Raphael feels cold and numb. She wiped Simon out, she erased him, and the light falls, falls, falls down on her face, and Raphael stays in the shadows. 

That wasn’t part of the plan. 

The first vampire to drink your blood, the vampire that turned you becomes your Sire. Their hand holds the leash to your mind, their voice whispers in your ear. If it’s an old experienced vampire, whose eyes are cold and memory is sharp, they can put a charm on your mind, fog it, lure it, sing it to hypnotise. 

If it’s someone ruthless, they can drink your blood - bitter blood of a new undead - and swap you out, make you a drone, a zombie, a mindless minion.

Fear is cold and overwhelming feeling in Raphael’s gut. Despair is a sharp burn in his throat, and that shouldn’t have happened, and that’s not what a sensible person would do, and he overlooked it. 

That wasn’t in the plan.

“He came to me and said he wanted to be free.” Camille’s face is hard, and her voice is sweet, cooing, and she wipes the blood from the corner of her mouth with her fingers and licks it off. “He said he’s tired, and lost, and can’t resist to my call, and he just wants to be free from it all.” She glances at Simon’s rigid face. “He’s free from this world now. I hope he’s thankful.”

“He’s an ungrateful little shit.” Raphael’s voice is rusty and crunched. “I doubt this interpretation satisfies his request of freedom.” 

Camille laughs, and the sound mixes with the cold light of the lamp post, with the always present buzz of the city, with the probable impossibility of getting Simon’s self back. 

And Raphael is angry.

Dear God, help him, cause he's angry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-betaed. Please, please, point out any mistakes you'll see. Not a native speaker here.

_ “We need some certain points to build the plan on. What do we know for sure?” Sharp edge of the red nail draws the line in the ash on the table, it curls and dances around Lily’s finger. _

 

_ “She will try to kill Raphael, that’s what! That, we can be pretty damn certain about!” Simon throws his hands in the air.  _

 

_ Raphael doesn’t feel anything when he answers.  _

_ “We’ll use it, then.”  _

  
  


Rage rises in Raphael as a forest fire, quick, scary, painful. It roars inside of him and tears something apart, swallows and nullifies. It feels good somehow, to know it’s justified. 

 

(Raphael’s always hated being outraged; was ashamed later; tried to hold down his bad temper. He asked God to help him to contain his anger, asked Saint Maria to share her endless mercy with him.

 

He doesn’t this time.) 

 

“It’s a taboo,” he spits at Camille's face, and she looks so satisfied, so confident. “It’s a crime, a violation, a sin.” 

 

“There’s nothing sacred anymore.” She twists her lips in a jaded smirk. “Try to keep up, Rapha!” 

 

His name is an insult from her, something to feel guilty and despaired about. 

 

“Was there ever, for you?” Raphael hisses. His fangs had shown, he knows it.

 

“I can’t remember, actually,” Camille smiles serenely, and her eyes are black, cold and dangerous as a water under the thin ice. “Not for a long time, anyway.” 

 

She snaps her fingers again and four other vampires come out from the dark. Their steps are smooth, and their faces are empty, almost bored - but there is just lack of everything on them. 

 

Raphael can’t recognise any of them. He doesn’t know if it’s because they’re strangers, or because they look unliving, untouched by anything, stripped from emotions, they look like  _ things _ , and Raphael can’t see familiar features behind it. They stand next to Simon, five unmoving figures in the bleached merciless light.  

 

He wants to scream. 

 

“That’s enough,” Lily appears at his side, gracious and dangerous presence. Raphael knows that the rest of the clan follows her. He stands a little more straight, squares his shoulders. That's both a weight and a reassurance, an armor and a burden.

 

“ You’re an abomination to the vampire race, Camille.” Lily’s voice is calm and cool. 

 

“We are all abominations here. It’d be the high time to stop lying to yourself, sweetheart. We’re all scums here, and you know what?” Camille looks almost like she’s happy. Satisfied, anyway. “I’m going to embrace it.” 

  
  


_ “We need to make sure Camille would never be able to become the leader of clan again.” Lily clicks her lighter, letting the fire rise and killing it, and letting it light up again. “If she would be accepted in clan even as a simple member, she will work her way up, she’ll dance through all the casualties.”  _

 

_ “So she’s persistent bitch, consider me un-fucking-surprised,” Simon sighs. “Why are both of you glaring, she is! And we need to expose her. Like you’ll hide our clan in the bushes and I’ll provoke her, so they can hear she’s madder than the Hatter. She’s like crossover of Mad Hatter and Sweeney Todd. Or something.” _

  
  


There’s a moment of complete silence. Raphael would count the beats of his heart, if he could, to know how long it lasts. As it is, it’s a small eternity pressed into the second, a photograph snapped in between the movement, all the intent without act.

 

Then comes the hurricane. 

 

The fight is a mess as it always is. The older Raphael gets, the less beauty he can find in any kind of violence. It’s all the sharp moves and the blood on the fangs, and hisses, and cries of pain. It’s falling down and getting up, and the lip bitten in stubbornness, and the anger, and the world goes red in his eyes. 

 

His clan is to be proud of, and they’re trying to spare lives, to defeat and capture without damaging and killing, but their enemies have no such restraints. They’re ruthless, they don’t pity neither vampires of Dumort nor themselves.  They fight with desperacy, and their faces are blank. 

 

Old Eugen, Raphael thinks, and there is a quiet pain inside of him, Old Eugen, I didn’t know. 

 

Camille attacks him, and she made him kill Eugen, and she corrupted Simon, and Raphael feels these two names pulsate in his veins when he counterattacks, when he  ducks under her arm, when he catches her wrist and twists it, hard, drinking in the pain splashed on her face, when he takes her into the clinch, and her hair, black long hair, is in the way, but she struggles under his arms, helpless, but his teeth are sharp above her neck.

 

Raphael breathes in, and breathes out, and he’s afraid he won’t be able to kill Camille, and afraid he  _ will be.  _

 

Eugen.

 

Simon.

 

Eugen.

  
  


_ “Hey,” Simon smiles at him, and the music is the magic of sounds, fucking siren dj, and Simon is close, and his face is beautiful in it’s vulnerability and openness. “After all this is over, can we go somewhere?” _

 

_ “Where?” Raphael isn’t really sure it was him who asked.  _

 

_ “Doesn’t matter. Anywhere. Like, library. Or music store. Or here!” Simon looks like he’s drowning, not loudly, movie-style, but real-life, quiet drowning. Raphael can’t answer at once, he’s frozen in the moment. _

 

_ “No pressure, okay? And you don’t have to answer now, I just thought I’d ask. But if you’d answer right now, it’d be so cool, dude, you have no idea, cause I’m the worst when left hanging. The absolute worst.You have the example on your hands, oh my-” he chokes on the God’s name, and flails, and Raphael laughs. _

 

_ “Jesus,” he mutters. “Okay.” _

  
  


Camille trembles under his grip, she shatters, and it takes a couple of moments for Raphael to understand she’s laughing. She’s so careless about it, and Raphael can’t decide if she doesn’t recognise him as a threat or she simply doesn’t care.

 

She’s laughing, almost soundless, ugly laugh, with her mouth open wide, fangs sharp. 

 

“We’re both just animals, Raphael,” she says, “we’re both greedy hungry beasts, it’s just that you’re a weak one!” 

 

Raphael tightens his grip, makes her to squirm of pain, but she’s still giggling, and calls  out: 

 

“Simon!”

 

And Raphael starts listing the names of saints in his head, like he’s picking on the rosary’s beads - Maria, Joseph, Peter, Benedict, Michael - don’t let it come to that, don’t let it come to that - 

 

But his prayers go unanswered, year after year they can’t reach anyone in heaven, and he still wastes himself on them.

 

Simon attacks him from the back. 

  
  


_ “So…” Simon is getting his sneakers on, his eyes on the floor, and Raphael can’t see his face. “I’m thinking about giving Magus a sample of my blood.”  _

 

_ He stands up and Raphael considers telling him that his t-shirt with Star Wars’ quote is absolutely inappropriate for a club and Magnus will sass them both all over for it, and then he blinks and catches on. _

 

_ “No.” _

 

_ “Okay, but I’ve got arguments! Magnus is pretty trustworthy! We need to…” _

 

_ “No. It’s not safe, idiot. The case is closed.” _

  
  


Simon tackles  him, brings him down, and Camille is free and she stops laughing. Simon fights blindly, angrily, he doesn’t try to dodge Raphael’s punches, and he’s fast, even if his breath is stuttered, broken, whistling. Raphael barely manages to throw him away and get up. He has a moment to look around - to see Lily and Elliot holding down one of the Camille’s zombies, to see John and Derek circling another. No one says anything, it's flashes and rustles of movement and quiet stand offs.

 

Then Simon attacks him again, and Camille watches them, Raphael can feel her gazing on the fight. She’s drunk on courage. 

 

Simon claws at him, draws some blood, and Raphael should stop him, should be aggressive, but he can’t. It's Simon. There is Simon somewhere in this rabid mindless body. 

 

Simon elbows him in the gut, and Raphael can't breath - he doesn't need to breath, but he forgets it, it hurts and he can't suck in a fraction of air, and fear is cold and trembling feeling in his gut. 

 

Simon looks at him and Raphael can see the pain in his eyes and it sobers him. 

 

“Magnus!” He screams, and catches Simon's wrists and holds them so tight it's certainly painful, and Simon struggles in his arms, tries to get free, like a fish out of the water, unconscious hysterical movement.

 

“It would take another minute, my toothy cupcake, the blood should dry.” Magnus says it like he’s unbothered, and Raphael wants to laugh at his sham, and on the fact that Simon disobeyed him and it will probably save them. 

 

Probably. 

 

If God is merciful today. 

 

Simon bites on his fingers, hard, and Raphael hisses and lets him go. 

 

Simon comes at him again, angry desperacy and cutting hits and Raphael tries to avoid him, and Simon catches him. His right hand with sharp claws is over Raphael's throat, on the pulse point, his left hand is on Raphael's heart. 

 

The air is thick between them, almost liquid. 

 

Raphael thinks,  _ Jesus, he won't be able to forgive himself.  _ There’s faraway echo of grief in Simon's eyes. 

 

Raphael can imagine Simon's future guilt, unbearable, ever sharp and heavy. 

 

“Do it,” hisses Camille. Raphael doesn't look at her. 

 

Simon blinks and Raphael refuses to shut his eyes. 

 

Simon’s claws cut the skin on his neck, painfully slow, and Raphael grits his teeth, preparing.

 

The whirl of movement takes Simon and knocks him down. It's a big dark shadow that covers him, and Raphael stands here, his fingers on his neck. There’s a small cold string of blood under them. 

 

He looks at the shadow and it takes a couple of seconds to recognise the wolf in it. His eyes are glowing green. 

 

It growls quietly, not scary, not angry. Simon goes limp under the weight. 

 

_ “Luke, I need you to promise. You know how Raphael is.”  _

 

_ “I know all his dog jokes, don't you worry.” Luke’s voice is warm in the phone’s dynamic. Simon smiles. _

 

_ “Yeah, but he probably got some new, Balto. Promise me, please.” He’s already halfway there, on the address Magnus found for them. He shouldn't stall.  _

 

_ “Okay. I won't interfere unless you're at danger or are one. And I won't let you kill anyone. Well, no one not worthy of killing.” _

 

_ “Luke, oh my…” _

 

_ “No, not your God, just good ol’ me here.” _

 

Magnus goes out of the dark. His makeup is flawless, his hands are shaking. 

 

“You should probably hold her, Rapha,” he says. Raphael looks back - and of course, Camille is trying to fade away, to vanish. Both his and Magnus’ heavy looks hit her, and she shivers under combined rage and judgement.   Raphael catches her shoulder. She's sways under his grip like a doll, inanimate object made to be beautiful and empty. Raphael supposes she's aiming for pity or even sympathy. Her lips wobble.

 

“I broke the spell,” Magnus says next. “You can let him go, Luke. Excellent timing, I'm willing to applaud.” 

 

Luke huffs, easy playful sound, lets Simon go and changes to human form. He offers Simon his hand to help him to get up, and Raphael is slightly annoyed by the fact he can't be the one doing it, can't check on Simon, can leave Camille unsupervised. It's painfully stupid. 

 

“And the spell on the others should be broken,” Magnus waves his hand in the air, “right about now. Yes. Good thing I had that blood sample, my dear, it would be almost impossible without it.” 

 

“Well,” Simon coughs, shrugs. He seems shocked, not that it's unexpected. “Don't use it to be evil and creepy, please. My blood has the genetical fear of evil and creepy in it. Which is not the best ability in the world I live in. Damn.”

 

He goes to Raphael and hugs him, lays his forehead on the crook of his shoulder, ignoring Camille completely. 

 

Raphael looks over him on the de-spelled vampires.  They've stopped fighting, but their faces are still empty. They look completely lost.

 

Odds are, they forgot how to be a person, not a tool, not a trained animal. 

 

“It was horrible,” Simon says, and Raphael can feel these words on his skin. They're slow, quiet, and almost absent, and raw.  “Like, it's obvious, right? Easily presumed. Not being myself equals horrible. But it was... no ability to be anyone at all. Surprisingly shitty. Like. You wouldn't believe me.” 

 

Raphael hugs him.with one hand, and then, when Magnus takes Camille from him, with another. Everybody keeps looking at Simon's back, and Raphael tries to shield him with his arms. 

 

“I would. I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a second to last chapter, folks. Woah. Only aftermath left, I guess.


	6. Chapter 6

Deep blue twilight surrounds them, the cool breath of the evening lays on the skin, like a coolness of mint in the mouth, fresh sharp feeling, clean and beautiful. 

 

Raphael tears a slice of bread apart, turning it into crumbs. A couple of sparrows are skipping beside his feet, little fearless birds, feathered citizens, who can't afford being afraid. 

 

Raphael looks at them with quiet tenderness. 

 

The small park is silent and calm. 

 

“Camille is enchanted,” he says, still looking at birds. They’re fighting about especially big and probably tasteful crumb. “Magnus made a spell for her. She's asleep and will be, as long as we want.” 

 

Father Andrew doesn't answer, but Raphael still knows he’s listening. One thing to be sure about. 

 

“I can't judge her,” Raphael says. Words are easy today. He can't remember the last time words were easy for him. “I can't, and Magnus can't, and Simon doesn't want to, even though he has the right.” 

 

“Does he?” Father Andrew asks. His voice is quiet, almost a whisper. He looks at the book laying on his lap, its sheets are white, lines are unreadable in the darkness. 

 

“Does anyone?” Raphael answers. “And still, she should be judged. I won't let Shadowhunters do that, they set her free once already, and that's more than enough.” 

 

Father Andrew sighs in defeat. 

 

“Simon works with the victims. They are lost, they're broken and wiped out. He's one of them, but he’s…” Not okay, not fine, not undamaged. “Better. And when they will be themselves, they will judge. That's the law of Downworlders.” 

 

“I could try to talk to them. Maybe I'll manage to guide them in finding our Lord. Or just ease their pain.”

 

Raphael glances at him. 

 

“Yes. I would appreciate it.” 

 

“It's not about your gratitude.”

 

“I know. But I'll feel it anyway.” 

 

Father Andrew chuckles. His bony fingers are moving on the narrow chain of printed letters, smooth, practiced movement. Raphael can swear that Father Andrew knows every word without looking. 

 

“It's a good feeling, gratitude, Raphael. It's a feeling full of light and warmth. It's a Godsend, truly.” 

 

“When it's not poisoned by the debt or guilt, when you can experience it in its purity, I’m sure.” Birds finish the last of Raphael’s gift and fly away, just like that, without any doubt, without as much as glance back. 

 

“It's deplorably rare, yes. That's a labor and a study, making yourself feel like that, learning and practicing.” 

 

“Is it paying?” 

 

“Oh yes.” Father Andrew smiles, and there’s a glimpse of a child in him, of a young boy, naïve, brave and wise. “But you know that already, don't you, son of mine?” 

 

“I'm making an educated guess at best,” Raphael murmurs. 

 

“You're fighting for your faith with everything you have, Raphael. You're reaching out to God’s light in you and you hold onto it, even when it’s painful, even when you're lost, and it's a path of a believer, long and bumpy road.” 

 

“Tell me about it,” Raphael snorts. His fingers are itching to touch the chain on his neck, to find blindly the small cross hanging on it. He still has difficulties with believing that the item is there, no constant burn or unbearable weight attached. 

 

It's easy, too. 

 

“But you can't reach the redemption only by hurting, Raphael, only by admitting your guilts. Jesus said: ‘Believe in the light while you have the light, so that you may become children of light.’” 

 

“You know, Father, sometimes I think that confessions are parents of therapy. We sit here and talk about my soul, about my griefs and hopes, about people I hurt and the things I believe in. As far as I know, it's pretty similar to what therapist would endure.”

 

Father Andrew smiles again, small ironic grin. He smiles a lot, and it's never malicious, never bitter, and Raphael could envy him. 

 

“Your therapist would say you’re deflecting here, son. But I think that religion and therapy do often have the same destination and, therefore, the same road to it.” 

 

Father Andrew sighs and looks at the night sky. Raphael knows that his eyesight is going bad, slowly, but steadily, like he needs to see this world less and less, like he’s getting ready to look into the new, better one. 

 

It fears him. 

 

“People are rarely just evil, Raphael. We are lost, misguided, angry, hurt. We're selfish, and scared, and blind. We believe we’re right, and we want to prove themselves, and we refuse to doubt. We can be malicious one moment and so fragile and kind the other.  People…”

 

The sky is navy, high above their heads, distant and wide. There are clouds on it, light and puffy. They look like feathers on the wing. 

 

“To find God is to become the healthiest you can, Raphael. It means make your soul light, and your heart whole. It means stop hurting your neighbors and yourself pointlessly, for the same of the pain itself. To find God you should heal yourself.” 

 

Raphael thinks about Camille screaming she's just an animal, so heartbroken and lost. He thinks about Magnus, immortal, ancient, distant and still fragile, still exposing himself to love and hurt. He thinks about the days when he feels so detached, and about the days when everything hits too close to home, leaving him raw and bleeding.

 

He prefers himself vulnerable, but alive. 

 

It's a moment of clarity, of global understanding, of world being pure and  _ making sense _ , and Raphael feels smile on his lips, stupid, involuntary, wide, honest. He wants to laugh. 

 

“I have to go,” he says to Father Andrew, and looks at him directly. Father Andrew’s eyes are warm,  relieved, happy. 

 

“Go forth, my child,” he says, “and sin no more.”

  
  


Simon calls when Raphael barely gets to the car. Raphael answer him and gets in. 

 

“So, I'll be late,” Simon says. “You can save the energy required for making yourself look surprised and get on with the sarcasm and superiority, you have all the rights. But I reserve the right to cry if you’re too mean, which, knowing you, is a given. So, prepare yourself to witness some manly tears…” 

 

Raphael Interruptus him smoothly. 

 

“You do realise that you’re wasting your time, don’t you? Right now you’re actively making yourself more late and my wrath more likely to be unbearable.” 

 

Simon laughs, carefree and open, and Raphael likes the sound so much. 

 

“Wrath is a sin, Raphael, I'm appalled and deeply bothered! Think about your soul!” 

 

“Sorry, my what again?” 

 

“That shit you claim is hurt whenever I try to work on Shakira cover and you can hear.”

 

“Ah, that would be my rational sensibility and musical taste.” 

 

“ _ Whatever, _ ” Simon says, and Raphael is briefly worried that he hurt Simon with his critique, but then again Simon is used to Raphael’s harsh brand of humour and he should be able to take something like that if he’s pursuing the career in music.  “Anyway, we’re on the hobby stage of self-development here-”

 

“You're on that stage for two weeks already.”

 

“-that’s because hobbies are important and art is the best way to explore yourself and work on empathy, and today someone used a glue with glitter.” 

 

“Oh, Jesus.” 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“So, what percentage of you is covered in that…” Raphael winces, “glue?” 

 

“Up to the sixty percents, I think. So, I know we were supposed to meet on the spot, but…” 

 

“I will pick you up, get your sticky glittery ass in the shower.” 

 

“I would argue that my ass is glittery in it's natural state, since my first Pride, probably, but I'm pretty sure you would rightfully call bullshit.” 

 

Raphael drums his fingers on the steering wheel, stupid little quirk he picked up from Simon. 

 

“Still not interested in your ass.”

 

“Still okay with it.” Simon immediately answers, like it's that easy, like they’re not planning by Simon's request to spend their second date negotiating, talking in excruciating details about their  _ needs,  _ and  _ wishes,  _ and  _ expectations,  _ and, God forbid,  _ boundaries,  _ even though Raphael’s pretty sure that both of them have only slightest understanding of their inner workings, both of them have not so much of experience, and…

 

Well, Raphael is not overconfident, that's for sure. 

 

“Anyway, I should really get in the shower, before my scary, toothy ducklings will come seeking for their father duck. Even though I'm younger than all of them in both senses of the word. They're both frightening and adorable and I'm not sure I'm processing it.” 

 

“Shower,” Raphael reminds and starts the car. 

 

“Yeah, right, shower. I'm going. Seriously. Hey, will you come on my training session tomorrow? Lily is a slavedriver, and…” 

 

Raphael ends the call, before he’s talked into the oblivion. He pictures Simon on the other side, gasping and gesturing wildly at the phone, screaming ”Rude!” and snorts. 

 

The roads are almost clear at night, and Raphael drives easily, mindlessly, with the car flooded with music and his thoughts jumping from topic to topic, free, unconcentrated. Asphalte is moist, and the back headlights of  bypassing cars are glowing red, and it's all the movement, speed, instinct. 

 

Raphael loves this city. 

 

Maybe this thing with Simon won't work out. 

 

(Maybe it will.)

 

Maybe Father Andrew will die tomorrow and leave him in shreds. 

 

(Maybe he will live for another eight or ten years and Raphael will be ready to let him go by then.)

 

Maybe his clan will be forced to participate in a war, and the future would reek of blood, death and desperation. 

 

(Maybe Lord will grant them safeness. Please, oh, please, the hope is the things with feathers, and these feathers are tickling something inside him. Please.)

 

But for now. 

 

For now Raphael has someone waiting for him, he has someone to clutch on and laugh with. He has Simon, and his clan, and Magnus, and Father Andrew.

He's not sure how he got to this point in his life (after-life, instead-life, not-death).

There's a cross on his neck, there’s God in the world, there’s his right for redemption and clearness. There’s a sprout of love in his heart.

And he has twenty glorious minutes of bliss before he picks up Simon. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm keynoi on tumblr, so
> 
> Also the title is from Placebo's song soulmates never die because I love stupid puns and these guys are immortal. And soulmates.


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